Sleeper Awakens
by juliasejanus
Summary: Third instalment: sequel to A General's Son and Homeward Bound. At eighteen, Alex Rider has morphed from Aleksandr Sarov to Sasha Canterbury. As he finishes High School, his thoughts turn to revenge. The ex-spy will morph from victim to manipulator to achieve his goals
1. Chapter 1

Alex had always known he had practically nothing in common with the other students at school since his first day two years ago. He was perfectly at ease with his weirdness. There were others who were immigrants, that were orphans who had been adopted, some had medical conditions and some were in therapy. There was even another in the year above, who had tried to kill herself. Despite ticking all those boxes, Alex was not bullied; strangely most of his class treated him like a sort of special needs project crossed with a lucky mascot. His scarily protective older brother thought that was unreal, that super scary ex-spy boy was mothered by even the wrestling team. High School in Georgetown had turned out to be an easy ride.

The Sasha persona was a quiet introvert, with odd touches of mania when out of his comfort zone. Joe was a perfect balance of cool in his own skin, geek and outcast. Both of them had with better than predicted grade point average considering their bad boy reputation at fourteen. Joe still spent more hours hacking than studying and Alex was not that bothered about school in general to try hard at either studying or fitting in.

Alex had almost forgotten how shit life could be, when everything went south on a seriously uncool Thursday. Everything had been normal, considering his after-school intern position with a bunch of do-good lawyers working on pro-bono cases for all comers. A position gained from Mimi's network of contacts. His fluency in six languages, meant he occasionally did interviews with immigrants, but most Thursdays he filed, answered the phone and did boring repetitive office work between 3 and 8. Today was no different as he sat and stuck labels on envelopes to various sponsors and affiliates. Only three volunteers regularly braving the death by boredom in the name of civil liberties.

Two uniformed police officers had arrived, looking for some poor soul on this firm's books. From leaning over his never ending pile of dull correspondence, Alex pushed his chair over to Kayla's desk. The pair planning on enjoying a ring side view of Ivy League educated legal team versus donut eating cops. If he had know there was going to be entertainment, he'd have made popcorn.

As the resulting impasse played out over client confidentiality, Alex's phone vibrated and he exited to the privacy of the rear alley, a spot normally only occupied by the smokers on staff. An archive box was used to prop the fire door open, Alex's mood had lifted as his caller was his boyfriend. "Hey, how's life in Boston, beautiful?". Paul had graduated High School last year and was a freshman at MIT, with more than an outside chance of being finishing his PhD before Alex finished his own planned Nursing training.

There was a dramatic prolonged pause before Paul Roscoe began his practiced dear John speech, "Babe, I can't make it to your prom. Schedule clash with the frat."

Ever the realist, the young man noted there were no endearments for him from his lover. "Sure thing, its gets me out of needing a tux anyway." The unsettling feeling of impending rejection made Alex slump back against the dumpster, waiting for his assumption to be confirmed.

After a cough and another pause, Paul continued, "Its just, well, you're going to Mexico this summer 'volunteering'" The last word sneered as helping out at a medical drop in centre in the slums was the last thing on earth the heir of billions would do. "Its just our thing, dating, its not practical considering I'll be in San Jose as a company intern. It was fun while we were both at school, but we have different life goals. You with MSF or UNICEF, whatever; and me, well, living in the real world."

Alex smiled ruefully, looking at the pile of cigarette stubs, wishing he was smoking at this precise moment and he made the decision not to ask the real question on his mind about the person who had replaced him in Paul's affections. "Sure. Different goals. That sounds nice and clinical." It made sense as during his last visit to New York for New Years, Paul had been distant and standoffish when they went out, but had been his usual hug bug and sex god at home. The big picture was that internship was Paul's stepping stone to being full board member at 21 and fitting in with the high society, the ideal of normal and very much staying in the closet. Someone at college was OK with a secret relationship, whereas Alex was out and proud at home and at school.

Paul then continued on to his big finish, "You have always been cool about an open relationship in the past, only you don't date or see people. College is about having fun. Have some fun, Al. Pining for me is not living. Its been great. We'll still be friends. Its just I've moved on. You need to as well."

Alex moved into the building and steeled himself for the big goodbye. "Yeah, it was good, but you've grown out of your flirtation with being queer, I guess. Doesn't fit in with your frat buddies, does it?" Rather than hear excuses, Alex switch off his phone. Now there was no need to conform to any nice boundaries or the plan to be as normal as possible. Plan B had always been at the back of Alex's mind, as Plan A had been to get well, finish school and try to be happy. Plan B was being the full on anti-government activist. The young volunteer knew he had been expecting Paul's need to conform would win over his teenage infatuation. It had never been about promises of forever, but it still left a hole in his life. Trust, great sex and companionship had been enough to keep Alex happy. Maybe he just had very low expectations. He had no wish to keep a stiff upper lip, so he went to straight to Kayla and spilled the beans on his new status as single. "I'm done. FYI, Paul's just dumped me, so I'm off to see my BFF Lola to eat ice cream and chocolate till I puke."

…

Lola Hernadez had done her set at Chez Regina. She was a delivery worker by day and was a fabulous star of lip synching three nights a week. Of the guys here, she alone remained female 24/7, as she was in transition. It would take her another four to six years to afford surgery, but she had never been Laurence. It had been Sasha who had encouraged her to be true to herself. School had been less than impressed with her stance in her senior year, but being different and standing out from the crowd had given her inner steel. Something she needed in spades dealing with the more shitty comments at work and on the street. In the claustrophobically small dressing room, the last person she expected to drop by, was her tall, skinny and almost terminally shy friend from school. Sasha had the look of desperation and hurt carved on his handsome face. He had arrived with a full grocery bag. "Hi, hun? What's up?" She knew her friend's schedule and Sasha was normally three blocks over being a perfect image of a young Democrat volunteer, making his mom proud until 8, when they usually met up for coffee and donuts to moan about how boring work was. Her friend was 45 minutes early.

"Paul phoned. He's got new life goals and is free to fuck everyone at MIT and not feel guilty. So, I've bought four tubs of Ben and Jerry's, three boxes of Belgian truffles and a box of triple chocolate chip cookies."

"Oh, babe. I hate being right about a guy, but he was a friend with benefits; love was never on his agenda."

"Never on mine either." Paul had been one of the few people the former spy could trust and be himself with. Life with Sarov had left him too broken to expect anyone to love him without a huge amount of emotional blackmail and threats of beatings involved. "Paul was the one to say the love word to me, he wanted a relationship, the one to want more than fucking. Guess being popular at a top fraternity means you need to ditch your freak of a boyfriend." Alex accepted the hug from the only person he had connected with a High School, as he had told Lola just how bad things had been in Russia. Without mentioning anything spooky, the chief organiser of the very small LGBTQ society had fully empathised with an outsider, used to being ostracised by friends, beaten and surviving serial stays in clinic caused by hiding one's sexuality in a country where gay equated with sexual deviant.

…..

Lola was spread out snoring on Alex's bed. The sleepover had involved watching Alex's favourite movie, the outrageously bad and very funny Undercover Blues. Popcorn, ice-cream and cookies had been eaten; though the chocolate was currently hidden with Alex's journals for future consumption. It was 4AM and Alex couldn't sleep so was listening to the BBC World Service through earphones, not music, art nor anything worthy, but a current affairs panel discussion. Then Alex heard the cold, nasally, bland tones of Alan Blunt discussing the recent arrest of a terrorist cell in East London and the fine work of GCHQ, Special Branch and MI5. The promised retirement of that child-abusing bastard had not lasted two years as the man was now a security adviser for the shadow cabinet. Alex made it into the bathroom to puke and then knew it would take more than brushing that bastard's abuse of power under the rug to keep that man retired in obscurity and without allies. Alex had been too preoccupied playing the normal teenager, but as he stood looking in the mirror after washing his mouth out; there was the reflection of the kid who had been a complacent puppet, play acting happy families with that psycho Sarov.

There was blood on his arms, the floor, the teenager slumped down beside the towel rail. There was the proof he had broken every rule in the book as he crashed back into reality and threw the broken razor in the bin, howling at his own folly. The cuts were shallow, but a testament to the fact the hurt, betrayal and confusion caused by Blunt was all still under the surface, unresolved. He tried to ignore the shouts from the hall from his family and his best friend. He wanted to be alone to process this complete loss of control, when the lock broke and Charlie stumbled in.

The big man's presence softened to open body language as he surveyed the damage to his son. "Oh, Sasha. Its Ok. You remember the emergency action plan. Mom's gonna call Luke. It'll be a stay at the clinic we visited. Voluntary, not forced. Can you manage that?"

Alex nodded, shivering. He let his dad get the first aid kit and bandage his arms. "Nothing too serious. A trip to the emergency room first though. I'll take you."

The general looked at his wife, "I'll get Sasha sorted. Joe sort out breakfast for Lola and take her to work. Mimi darling, Joe, I'll keep you in the loop once we get the emergency room sorted and transfer over to Middle River." Family came first for the Canterbury's, the General would take emergency leave and retire if needed. They had adopted Sasha knowing it would mean long term care and support, not just fostering. The kid had been let down too often, used and abandoned. He and Mimi had well rehearsed back up plans for all emergencies. Joe just nodded as he comforted Lola, who was as shocked as he was at this incident of extreme self harm.

….

Joe sat staring at his bagel and Lola sipped her coffee. She noted time was going oh so very slowly this morning.

"So, like Sasha has a history of this, as you know. Only the blacking out bit is new, but not unexpected. Its been on the cards that he has alters, a personality disorder. The trauma before, means he moulds himself to be neutral. I think he's most comfortable like that, only things happen that mean he can't keep in control, the nice mask slips. He hates himself in those moments for being weak. He is not suicidal, just complicated." The dark haired teenager wished more than anything he could make everything right for his brother, but breaking up with that selfish oaf Roscoe was probably for the best in the long run. "I have a game plan. I'll get all our friends to rally round. We expected a bump anyway considering graduation and me going to college. Sasha has a year out to chill and consider his options. We are going to weather this. Don't worry. It'll be OK."


	2. Chapter 2

Edward Pleasure was having a hard time being objective over his latest investigation subject: Alan Blunt was a hard man to emote with on any level. The former Head of MI6 Special Operations was hated and reviled by his colleagues and counterparts; a man who most stated deserved a taste of his own medicine. The journalist was not alone assuming spies had no morals, but using a child in espionage broke every rule of decency and of law. His new book followed on from his last investigation connecting McCain to the murder of fellow journalist, Harry Bulman. A man who had been aware his time was up, as Bulman had sent a back up of his files to Edward, including a stack of information on MI6, SCORPIA, including information on Sabina's one time friend, Alex Rider. The list of suspects for that murder were Blunt, SCORPIA and McCain.

The freelance journalist had become a bit of a celebrity after his exposes on Damian Cray and Desmond McCain. He now employed an ex-SAS sergeant as a bodyguard, due to the fact he was lucky to be alive after two failed assassination attempts. In 2001, he had written his bestseller after piecing together the real face of the popular musician. He had followed up Cray's death; when most had assumed the man had been abducted by the mercenaries blamed for the firefight at Heathrow, in an attempt to hijack AirForce One. The reality was a mass murderer, who had tried to kill Edward and his wife. The insane musician, drunk on fame and deluded to think he could reshape humanity after triggering a nuclear holocaust as the head of his own personality cult.

Then there was his follow up, Desmond McCain had caused disasters to fund his own charity, killing thousands in the process. The man who had been executed in India last year for crimes against humanity. Another celebrity mass murderer, who failed in his attempt to kill Edward, purely by his afore thought in hiring a bodyguard.

In his current work folder, the journalist had files on all the kids rescued from Point Blanc Academy in Grenoble in 2001, as he followed up on all the details from Bulman. Unexpectedly, there he had recognised Alex, now the adopted brother of Joe Canterbury. However, there was a strange gap in his records. Where had Alex been between June 2001 and May 2003? The adoption records were sealed. The main odd coincidence in the timeline was the Canterbury abduction, followed within two months Blunt had taken early retirement out of the blue. The journalist knew that was not happenstance.

…..

Alex was nervous. He tried to rationalise that he should not be, as he sort of knew the journalist from life before. He'd been on holiday with him and his family in 2001. Edward had been everything a dad should be. Sabina had been a real daddy's girl; probably still was. Sab had been a good friend in that time when he had lost all his connections to normal in Chelsea, in the six weeks after Grief and before Cuba, before Sarov, before he disappeared. Now he was meeting the man who had the thankless task of writing Blunt's biography, luckily a very unauthorised one.

His breakdown four weeks ago had been caused by the revelation the emotionless bastard was in the process of reinvented himself as a political pundit for the hard right, a mere two years after getting retired rather than sacked for gross professional misconduct. The man had friends in high places. Well connected enough to survive and thrive as a mover and shaker. Currently, the man was advising the shadow cabinet on security issues.

Any background check would give the impression Sasha Canterbury had no connections to MI6, nor to Alex Rider; an orphan who had disappeared in 2001. The Russians had buried the adoption paperwork and his files in London were sealed. He was officially the son of Mimi and Charlie Canterbury, formerly Aleksandr Alexeyevich Sarov. Only a handful had crossed the path of the former teen agent. Edward Pleasure had known him as such and would be able to corroborate the truth about the Royal and General Bank with the Russians and the CIA. The eighteen year old had been guaranteed anonymity as a source after being contacted by Edward seven days ago. He had taken the first steps into his grand plan for shafting Blunt, an interview that would see one abuser get what was long overdue. The British Press had a long history of vilified child abusers.

As Edward sorted through his notes and set up for the interview, the tall, skinny young man looked out of the window of Hotel Harrington, from the fourth floor suite onto the street below. Nothing of note on the street, no vans or blacked out sedans, no spooks eavesdropping. He had already scouted the room for bugs. The downtown tourist hotel was mid range and bland. A place he would not cross paths with anyone who knew him or the Canterbury's. His parents were out of town with Joe. His brother looking over Stanford, where he was studying in the Fall. Alex had rain-checked the road trip and was meant to be finishing his own coursework staying with Lola, which was a little white lie as he had submitted his final assignments yesterday, a week ahead of schedule.

The teenager stopped looking at the traffic below, letting the curtain fall back into place, and crossed the room went to the fridge, pulling out a cold bottle of coke. Stocked with snacks and sandwiches, ahead of this in depth interview. He had already noted the journalist already had redacted copies of his FSB and CIA files. Alex was sure his friends in Russia were happy to oblige the journalist in getting back at Blunt. Proof in black and white from outside agencies on his abuser's guilt. He was unsure Joe Byrne had provided the redacted files, as Alex doubted the retired CIA man had allegedly developed a conscience. More likely, Byrne was stabbing Blunt in the back for purely personal reasons.

The journalist finished his phone call and observed Alex, then he corrected his thoughts as he had to call him Sasha. The bright, energetic, sarcastic boy he had known was now an introverted, troubled young man with dozens of scars on his arms. Self harm and suicide attempts were a reality in the past four years.

The bored teenager was tempted to turn on the TV as the silence in the room was oppressive. He put down his beverage and smiled broadly, quipping "Am I about to poke a sleeping dragon? Would it be better to remain silent? To continue to pretend I'm just an orphaned Russian kid. Not British, not a spy, not a victim."

Edward knew if Sasha had any doubts he would never have answered his email. "Abusers should always be confronted, brought to justice. Its part of my job that makes it worthwhile and not just flowery prose. Blunt deserves to die in prison for what he did to you." The journalist then started to play his last video interview. "Jack sends her love. Funny that she lives in Florida near her parents. She's a lawyer in Tampa, working mostly on immigration cases."

After viewing his former guardians perspective on those horrible months, a tear escaped those tired brown eyes, quickly brushed away. It was hard to remain calm as he digested the awfulness of the blackmail they had endured. Jack had been threatened as he had. "I miss her most of all. It was so hard knowing I can never contact her. Blunt used her to get me to jump through hoops. After Sarov, I knew I could never go back to London; that Alex Rider was really dead. The past is another country, quite literally in my case. She knows I'm alive I take it?"

"Yeah, she was told by the State Department you'd been repatriated in 2003 and placed with a foster family. No details, so she thinks you're in witness protection in England." The journalist had liked the lawyer, a woman with no qualms about going to press about Alan Blunt. Her testimony alone would sink Blunt's political ambitions.

The video camera was soon positioned, tested and turned on, with the light placed to keep his interviewee in shadow. With the first question all trace of an American accent was gone as the anonymous source started to talk. The flattened slight estuarine tones of a middle class Londoner spoke about his abduction by Blunt and his short career as a fourteen year old operative for MI6.

….

It was well after 2AM, when Sasha returned to Lola's studio apartment. She was sat reading a copy of Vogue, not at all impressed that her friend had not been there when she had returned from work. "Well, you are grounded, sunshine. I told your mother you were asleep when she rang. You have to ring her at 6 and pretend you've had a serious migraine." She stood and turned down her sofa bed.

Alex shrugged, "Sorry, I got caught up with an old friend from the old country."

Lola was too tired and just assumed her friend had met some former school friend from Russia.

Sat on the window, Alex was too wired to sleep, feeling more alive than at any point since his slip up before Easter. He picked up his phone, knowing Joe would pick up.

"Hey bro, feeling better?" Joe sounding like he knew Sasha had been out on the town with the lamest excuse possible.

Knowing he could not be exactly truthful over the phone, he spoke in his own code for sure thing, you know me I get away with minor misdemeanours. "Sure, I'm fine. I might go back to the farm later today. Can I take your car?"

"Right, sure thing. No problem. Drive carefully and call when you get there."

Alex already had his brother's car keys in his pocket. He went to lie down for a few hours sleep. Grandma Graylow was keeping herself busy these days organising the protests against the proposed pipeline route across southern Pennsylvania. Plans were on show and the local farmers were seeking fair compensation for loss of crops, disruption to pastures and distribution. More than a few were more concerned over the environmental impact on the woodland, water tables, local fauna and flora; concerns barely mentioned in the glossy gas company promotional material. Alex was going to learn from the master with fifty years experience on organising campaigns and civil disobedience.

…

After four days working like a demon to reshape the text considering Alex's input, Edward travelled to Manhattan. The rough draft had been devoured by his American editor by the next morning Ellie gushed, "My God, this will cause a sensation on both sides of the Pond. This kid, how the hell did you find him?"

"You're to smart to fall for pure chance." Edward did not mention the connection to his daughter. "I have promised complete anonymity. His name is not in my notes. We can never to reveal his current identity, though I'm sure that MI6 know precisely who and where he is. His safety ensured by the fact he was adopted by a very well connected and high profile couple in Washington. One of the reasons the CIA are so amenable to shafting Blunt."

The woman connected the dates within seconds, "The Canterbury kidnapping. The latest gossip is Mimi Graylow-Canterbury will be offered Secretary of State position. Didn't Sasha have a short stay in clinic recently?"

"Yeah, he's emotionally fragile." Edward sat back and pondered the art on the wall. "Jack Starbright described a completely different kid." The journalist took a sip of his tea. "I spoke to a specialist on childhood trauma, for perspective. There are certain points during your life you wish you could make more of a difference than just reporting abuses of power. Keeping Sasha safe is my main priority. I will erase my notes and manuscript if there's even the slightest chance he'll be put in harms way again." Edward Pleasure was sure that Sasha was strong to have made it to 18, after two years effectively under house arrest in Russia.


	3. Chapter 3

Less than three weeks until graduation and Alex was sat outside the Principal's Office. The last meeting of the debating society for the Senior year had not gone as planned. The chosen topic had been Abortion, which was always a highly contentious subject, but Ms. Thompson had taken his ultra pro stance as a confirmation of his suicidal tendencies. All because he had used his birth mother's poor life choices as his example. He had rationalised she would have been better off choosing to abort him, considering her age, failing relationship, and poor choice of sperm donor; not any perceived wish to erase himself from history. Now he had to endure the fact Mimi-momma was on her way, probably with Dr. Nick in tow. He felt like laughing it was so absurd. If he wanted to die, he would be pushing up daisies as he had learned from the mistakes he made at Suvorov. He hated thinking of his fifteen year old self and his absolute certainty that death was the answer to all his woes, when he'd realised he would never fit in.

God, his last bit of stupidity had been just that, stupid. He felt like the week in the clinic at Middle River had been more surreal pampering than an actual medical necessity; as he compared it to the pure terror his stays in clinics in Russia still evoked. His extended family were fully supportive, to the point of wrapping him in cotton wool. No chance of abandoning him to his nightmares. No one was suggesting he was a liability to state security like MI6, to be erased from past, present and future. He was just a teenager dealing with trauma and its aftermath.

He fiddled with his Medical Alert bracelet. Overthinking this situation, as he was in serious shit over nothing, with another hiccup and the certainty of it being recorded for posterity in his school file. Fuck, Plan A had been to leave school with a clean bill of health. He was nowhere near fighting fit. His escape to semi-independence in Mexico was not going to be happening. He coughed as he could feel the crawl of anxiety make his chest tighten. He pulled out his emergency inhaler to ease his breathlessness.

In the back of his mind was his real bit of reckless behaviour. How would everyone react to his candid interview with an investigative journalist? Joe had assured him Mimi and Charlie would be cool, considering talking was meant to be therapeutic and they both had previously stated Blunt was on a one way trip to eternity in hell. Only Alex did not believe in heaven or hell. Life had taught him too many hard lessons to have faith in anything beyond his own abilities in the here and now.

Senator Graylow-Canterbury pulled into the school parking lot with a grim expression on her face. She had known something was troubling her darling son from another mother since his surprise stay at the farm. He was confrontational, which equated to guilt eating at him. She was also sure Sasha had confided in Joe. After two years, the teenager still was wary of them, expecting to be locked up and/or abandoned for being any less than perfect. Patience and providing home and security could only do so much. Discipline was a nightmare, when their son had been been brutalised and blackmailed before. Even Joe agreed that his brother's wobbles were all rather tame compared to his own. The incident with the razor had scared them all, but friends and family had closed ranks and been there for Sasha.

She was using well practiced breathing exercises to remain calm and was staidly walking not running, rather than alert any observers to her heightened state of distress. She slowed to observe Sasha, who was sat looking pale and wheezing with his inhaler in his hand. She softly instructed "Short sharp breaths, sugar; then a slow exhale."

The blond did as he was told, calming himself down. He had already decided to come clean about everything. The confession over the interview with Edward would wait until everyone was sat down for dinner tonight. Here and now he had to clear up about thus misunderstanding over his justified bitterness over the own past and his perceived relevance to the debate today. "I forget that not all the teachers are aware of my shitty first sixteen years on this planet. I was totally bitching about my birth mother, who's a complete stranger really; both her and the sperm donor. I only know half truths about her anyway. I can empathise way more with you. You wanted Joe and family so much. You and Charlie are kismet, in love, happy even with me, the unwanted addition threatening to fuck everything up. Helen chose to leave me behind with her arse of a brother in law. Abandoned, a second thought, even as a baby. Forgive my stupid big mouth and poorly thought through notes. Anyway, I need to clear the air about a few things later. Now lets go face the music with Principal Turner."

…..

Yassen Gregorovich had been summoned for a meeting with the infamous Dr Three, his only connection these days to SCORPIA; as Rothman, Kroll, Yu, Chase and Kursk had succumbed to unfortunate accidents due to squabbling over control of the organisation. The Russian's plan of sitting in the shadows until the victor emerged had saved him from awkward questions about loyalty, as he had none, he was a survivor not a follower. Dr. Three was well aware of the lone wolf's personal projects in the past. He had warned the man to target Blunt via non direct means. The leak of information had paid off. Blunt had returned to the political arena and the press now had an open target. His chosen plant Bulman had died, but the information had remained in the open, after MI6's sloppy attempt at clean-up and containment.

The small Chinese doctor was sat in his garden drinking tea. His personal assistant moved to a respectful distance allowing the two men to talk. There was no offer of refreshments as the old man was wise enough to know his guest would refuse. "I am in need of your services, would you consider a twelve month exclusive contract?"

The Russian was passed an envelope. In silence he pondered the more than generous remuneration, terms and conditions.

His prospective employer continued "Your planned reunion with John's son is best placed on the back burner. The young man is playing his own game at the moment. You are aware he has spoken to the journalist, Mr. Pleasure. Give him his moment to watch Blunt be devoured by the wolves. I assure you his closure over past misuse will strengthen him and ensure his future independence from government agencies."

The assassin relaxed his posture, "You have always been amused by my personal projects. I will accept your position. I too will watch and enjoy MI6's discomfort."

The doctor had long studied their most accomplished operative and approved of his methods and practicality. "With a position on my staff, personal attachments are not a liability; just a small consideration for your future plans. The Board needs to evolve and be more flexible. Rothman did far too much damage in her failed grab for power. Eighteen months of instability, before I rationalised the shattered remains. We have lost numerous clients to our competitors. Fear and awe will be needed to re-establish our credentials."

Yassen also knew the infighting had made most security agencies expend their resources elsewhere, as their analysts had projected the decline in influence and relevance of SCORPIA in the bigger picture of the War on Terror.

"As always, you may pick and choose your assignments, teams etc and I expect you to be as exacting in your standards. With your agreeing of terms, any freelance assignments would need to be assessed for conflict of interest." The Doctor was sure the assassin, if approached delicately would move up to sit on the Board, as he was a ruthless operative, yet one willing to take suggestions, to stay his hand and to learn from past mistakes. As a practitioner of the fine art of revenge, the old man appreciated Gregorovich's approach to righting perceived betrayals and honouring his debts to his friend and mentor, John Rider. Julia Rothman's past mistakes had almost cost SCORPIA another fine operative. "As a small incentive, here is Mr. Howell's file. He betrayed our South-east Asian operation to ASIS after the death of handler, Ms. Rothman. I leave his punishment up to you. As with Mr. Blunt, a holistic approach is sometimes its own reward."

…

Charlie was sat up in bed, not watching the ball game, but thinking of Sasha being brave and reckless enough to confront the secrets and lies to tell a journalist the truth about Alan Blunt. He had not read either of Pleasure's sensationalist books on that musician or that murderer. He closed his eyes and concentrated on the familiarity of Mimi brushing her teeth. For the first time in seven years, the couple had a romantic holiday planned to celebrate their fortieth wedding anniversary. He was having second thoughts. No, Fran could manage with Sasha. He could already imagine the pair being arrested while protecting some trees or some such. Mimi's mom had used her grief to reignite her passion for fighting injustice.

Mimi came in and broke her news. "I emailed Dieter Sprintz. He's been having issues with James. Maybe Sasha can visit them rather than be stuck at the farm this summer."

Her husband nodded, Charles had learned the hard way to listen to his wife about disciplining Joe. Sasha had already accepted he was grounded for the summer. The three months in Mexico had in reality been off the cards after his breakdown. He pondered the idea of sending a troubled eighteen year old to Switzerland was likely to be just as problematic. "Persuade me, love. I think Sasha needs us now more than ever."

"Trust me. He needs to find his feet. We're just giving him a small shove in the right direction. Staying with the Sprintz's is getting him away from his comfort zone, but we can be comforted that he is well protected as Dieter is paranoid about security. No journalists will trouble him there. Sasha can be super sneaky when he puts his mind to it. Even Joe had no idea that Sasha had been in contact with that man until after the fact."

The General was glad his wife was thinking outside the box. "Do you think Sasha'll go to college like Joe?"

"No, I fear that young man will run off to join a peace camp. Once he decides its cool to be himself, he'll be raising hell about anti-globalisation or nuclear weapons." The woman smiled, "I can just see the headlines about Sasha if I take up that State Department post. I'm tempted just to change jobs so both our sons can raise hell and keep the press corps in complete shock. It makes me wish I was 18 again. Remember demonstrating against all things Nixon. Those were the days."

…

Joe had his earphones on, but Alex knew the game he was currently playing from the snippets of bad music he could hear. He was laying on the futon set up for sleepovers, pretending to sleep. In a few weeks, this would be a rare occurrence. His brother had a job and would have to keep normalish hours, though the gaming company did not enforce nine to five. Sasha was unsure how his grounding would work. If he went to the Farm, Grandma Fran would let him do as he pleased. She had already suggested he try out for local jobs. Though he could not see himself as a farmer or helping out at the church. He could already guess Mimi would organise something weird and wonderful as a reward for honesty and openness. There was a woman who should have been blessed with a houseful of children. Maybe he could pass that thought onto Joe, as he had to carry the responsibility of many future grandchildren. With that perfect way to poke fun at his brother, Alex fell asleep after weeks of crippling insomnia.


	4. Chapter 4

Dieter Sprintz was really something else. Alex had arrived at Dulles and his dad's car pulled up to a waiting business jet. One of the fleet owned for rental by James' dad. The man who had several homes, but had lived near Lucerne since 2001, moving from Dusseldorf to a more secure location. Not that the guy looked uber-rich, he dressed well, but like an anonymous boring businessman, except he always wore his father's watch. What set him apart were things like the private plane sent for his son's friend without a second thought. James complained often enough that such effortless extravagance worked against him achieving real friendships, even at the several exclusive academies he'd attended and been expelled from.

The Canterbury's were fairly well off with a nice house and three cars. Though, not quite in the same economic bracket as most of the Point Blanc alumni. It was strange to think of such wealth, as Alex had never really thought of Paul as anything different, with the exception of his grandmother's home, which was large and spacious apartment with a view of Central Park worth tens of millions. His ex was unassuming, with no outward differences in terms of outlook and appearance. He travelled by commercial airliner, just not in coach. Otherwise had a high end car not a Ferrari, used taxis, but not the metro or bus. No different to Alex or Joe. Paul Roscoe would be a billionaire when he took over his father's legacy at twenty-one, all held in trust until then. His grandmother was a proud woman, who had paid all day to day expenses out of her own money. A woman of effortless good taste, knew what she liked and expected, but was definitely not ostentatious. With that realisation that money had caused his friend's isolation problems, he felt sorry for James, as Paul had a close to normal life post school from hell, not one continuously skewed by his family's wealth.

After ten minutes of fuss from Charlie, going over documentation, money, plans, medication, packing and possible emergencies, he had boarded to be served coke and a snacks by the steward as the pilot awaited the OK from traffic control. The bling jet would still take eight hours to Switzerland. The teenager was sure the very prim and proper steward was in for a boring flight. At least it was a redeye and the teenager planned to sleep, with the help of the chemical relaxation as recommended by Luke Majors. He'd needed therapy just to fly, not because of aviophobia per say, just the high likelihood of panic caused by reminders of the the trip from hell with Sarov from Cuba to Murmansk via Edinburgh four years ago. The four tablets were all he been allowed. So, no chance of overdose or getting dependant. His last session had concentrated on positive associations, with a step by step guide so he may never need to fear anxiety when going on holiday. With the last of his coke, he tried to be upbeat about not being kidnapped this time around and took his meds; settling back in the very comfy leather chair to sleep before the engines powered up.

Waking to the drone of the engines was jarring, making him switch from drowsy to wide awake in a second and then jump upright, alert for an attack. Luckily, no one noticed his minor freakout as the steward was busy serving the pilot. Rather than continue to act like a trapped animal, Alex went to the bathroom. Avoiding the mirror, the skinny blond kept his eyes closed as cold water was splashed over his face. The soft cotton towel was warm and smelled homely and fresh. He then sat on the toilet, rubbing his eyes and meditated to get into a better place mentally. After a full cycle of controlled breathing, he looked at his watch, still on Washington time stating it was midnight. He'd been asleep for six hours. Back in the cabin, he sat back down and forced himself not to feel claustrophobic.

The steward approached with a menu and a wide smile, "You slept well, Mr. Canterbury?"

"Call me Sasha, Johannes. Can I have another coke? My stomach is a bit unsettled." It had been Jack who had thought Coca cola was a cure all for any aliment, nor the vile and frankly weird Lucozade preferred by Ian when under the weather. Mimi had brainwashed Joe to think the full sugar version rotted your teeth and the brand was a symbol of globalisation gone mad. A drink available from the Congo to Kazakhstan.

The bottle arrived ice cold and was the expected absolute refreshing hit making everything seem better. Johannes sat opposite and made small talk. "So, you are friends with Mr. Sprintz?"

"James, yeah, same school a while back. We were BFF's there. My brother Joe was there as well. He's working a Prism Graphics and Games this summer." Alex knew it was a subsidiary of Roscoe Inc, but then again half of Silicon Valley was connected to that conglomerate in some way. "I'm undecided what I want to do, just like Jamie. Hopefully, we can brainstorm this summer and move forward." The only certainties, he was definitely not going to law school like Mom or joining the Army like his Dads and spying was up there with a loud, resounding hell no. The eighteen year old forced himself to continue the conversation, grasping at this diversion from less pleasant associations. "We last hung out last summer. James came to stay with us. Did the whole Smithsonian, Arlington and White House tour. Even got to play ball for Dad's team. I guess you do all that considering you travel a lot?"

The handsome twenty-something smiled and shook his head, "I wish, we arrived last night at five after dropping of an executive in New York. Dinner and hotel only, no sightseeing. Day before that we visited four countries in 24 hours. I am looking forward to going home for 48 hours to sleep in my own bed."

For the next two hours the pair spoke of home, sports and life choices. Alex even handed over his mobile number. A new friend in the making, one who had given him another perspective on navigating life as an adult.

…..

After the plane landed, Johannes Schmidt gave his psychological profile to his boss. "He had a panic attack on waking, but did not take a second dose of his medication. Related well, very open, seems very close to James as friends, but nothing more. He flirted but only briefly. No physical contact, he gave me his phone number and stated we could hang next time I'm in DC. A charming young man, who's coping well with obvious anxieties."

….

The billionaire financier had already been monitoring the international markets since 5AM. He would have breakfast with his son when Sasha arrived at 8. Technology meant he could work from home, keeping in contact with his team in Dusseldorf and see the trends on the markets. He also traded in more precious commodities. He had bought files about Point Blanc, Grief, his clones, Stellenbosch and Alexander John Rider.

As an expert in financial law as well as commodities and trading, in those documents he had acquired a full list of the assets held by John and later Ian Rider on their deaths. Money, property and investments held in trust by the Royal and General Bank. A considerable sum, which had been misappropriated by Alan Blunt, the supposed executor of Ian Rider's estate.

James' father was indebted to Alex and rather fond of the teenager after getting to know him. The Canterbury's were devoted parents, but their hands were full dealing with a psychologically damaged adopted son. He had been more than happy to offer some respite this summer. Rather than disturb the boy's holiday, Dieter knew better than to try and muddy the waters with lawyers, when the legacy concerned would be lost to fees at a rapid pace, he decided to delegate responsibility. The facts spoke for themselves, he was just a concerned friend of the wronged party as he addressed two packages to be sent by courier to the Head of the British Secret Service and the Private Secretary to Her Majesty The Queen. By lunchtime, the cat would be among the pigeons in London. A thought that brought a smile to the German's face.

The self made man lived for those moments, when he shook the establishment to its complacent foundations. He was comfortable as an outsider. His father a life long refinery technician, not a manager or a graduate. From such blue collar beginnings, Dieter had risen from a clerk in Deutsche Bank, a position he gained straight from school, to fund manager, independent trader, to billionaire. His luck at exploiting the wobble of the markets and currency uncertainty during the fall of the Gold Standard, then the adoption of the Euro. Money his son had no interest in. James had been quite vocal in his belief that acquiring more money than most countries GDP should be used to help mankind and the future of the planet, as those in power exploited and destroyed as they were more concerned for short term gains. His son would never be poor but 95% of all he had procured would be used to educate, adapt, improve and conserve. He had already given large endowments to various projects in Germany. In the next decade, his philanthropy would go global.

….

James knew precisely how badly Alex was failing to cope recently from detailed communications with Joe and the complete lack of feedback from Paul. Roscoe was a dick, not as big a idiot as Dimitri but close. Alex, AKA Sasha, was fragile in a way most of the guys from school did not get. As fast friends in 2001, Jamie had seen a mirror of his own crippling loneliness and isolation in the young Mr. Friend's interactions at school. That was why they had bonded. Both of them desperate for affection, with distracted and workaholic guardians and scarred from fickle pseudo friends at school. At least, he had parents who, despite their faults, loved him. After their holiday in New York in 2003, it had taken time and work for the pair to reconnect. Now, he would say he was almost as close as Joe to Sasha. He liked the thought they were all brother's from other mothers.

After Dieter had returned to his office, his son dropped the pretence of jolly and shallow. Concerned over the lack of food eaten and the bland politeness from the ex-spy, he decided on being tough but empathic, "You look like you need a long holiday, Sasha-baby."

The tall blond American had already slipped into pitch perfect Berlin-raised fluent German during breakfast, "What can I say, its been a shit four months. Mom had the right idea sending me here. I need a fresh perspective. I've painted myself into a corner. I was so sure Paul was a good bet for happiness."

The dark haired, pale boy's expression darkened at the mention of the evil ex. "He had us all fooled with his love struck, caring persona. Shame you're like me, can't connect to our peers as they have no fucking idea how shit life really is. Paul is in denial on many levels. You are the most real person of all of us. He just chooses to try and fake his way with his new buddies at college. I can't talk though as I prefer sexual relationships based on gratification not emotional connection. Both of us know trust is a hard earned commodity."

"You are an old soul, Sprintz". Alex was actually glad of the bluntness. He could not connect with most his own age, which ruled out reaching out for comfort or the gratification of casual relationships. "Its been five and a half months since I had sex. Chances are I'm going the long haul alone, but its OK. I'm cool with that. Better alone than any bastard getting close enough to hurt me". He appreciated the fact Jamie was upset about Paul's choices, but not like Joe, he was still cool at keeping all avenues open. When you had a handful of friends you should not alienate any of them because of their relationship going sour. "I'm so very over Paul. In a month or two, I plan to initiate detente. Friends again, nothing more. That boat has well and truly sailed."

There were more pressing problems for the two friends, Alex decided to steer the conversation to their future not the past. "So, Jamie? What are we doing to do to stretch our wings and be more than underachieving, over privileged, bad boys?"


	5. Chapter 5

There had been a subtle change in the Sprintz household, even Dieter noticed his housekeeper was uncharacteristically cheerful. Perplexed as there would be more work with two boys to feed and nurture, he asked what had occurred as Frau. Schenken was normally not shy in her grumbles.

The spry older woman practically beamed with joy when singing their guest's praises, "Sasha is a joy. He cleans his room and the shared bathroom and now James is following his example. This morning the boys baked those lemon and poppy seed muffins we all had for breakfast. I have to say it was mostly Sasha's doing, but James said he had to learn to be self sufficient to stand on his own two feet sometime and if he had been altruistic he would have taken food tech like his friend. They even offered to go into town and get the items I need for dinner. I trust Sasha, as his grandfather taught him to hunt, skin and butcher. He'll know a decent cut of meat and not be fobbed off with second best."

The housekeeper had always hated the habitual untidiness of her employer's only child, not that she had the heart to correct him. She understood Mr. Sprintz's lax attitude to discipline, considering the problems with the poor boy, traumatised after the abuse, imprisonment and attempted extortion at that school. As a reward for his maturity, the widow was planning on an afternoon excursion to her cousin's farm later that week. She was aware that James had failed on so many levels in his relentless pursuit of his father's high expectations, but he had always been more vocational than academic in nature. Being a butcher, baker, tradesman or farmer were equally acceptable professions as banking or finance. The boy's mother had her head in the clouds, writing those tawdry romance novels after retiring from modelling. Blythe was successful with a new title out every year, hated by the critics, but still getting into the bestseller lists. A fact that James found extremely embarrassing, as he had been teased mercilessly about the more racy erotic content at his boarding schools.

…..

The junk in James' closet was almost insurmountable. Four years of junk pushed out of sight and forgotten about. Alex pulled items out and then his friend made the hard decision to keep, sell or throw away. The listings for eBay would be impressive, including the stack of gifts from Blythe and her family that had never been worn or used. Then again buying for an almost monosyllabic teenager was nearly impossible for a mother and grandparents who only saw Jamie for a few days a year.

The last place to clear was under the bed, where James had shoved his battered school trunk, filled with books, very few notes and an impressive pile of painting and drawings. James sneered and without a pause said "Bin all of it", as all things school were to be repudiated and reviled.

Rather than comply straight away, Alex pulled out a few of the sketches. "These are good. That's an excellent likeness of Miss Stomachbag and here you drew me on a snow-ironing-board. I'm jealous, my attempts at art therapy were abstract in the extreme. Have you ever thought of Art School?"

"What's the point of that?" queried his friend who was putting clothes into a pile to photograph.

As a person with practically no artistic talent himself, with the exception of wearing clothes that did not clash horribly, Alex knew there was more to Art School than being a tortured self absorbed soul starving in a garret. "Its the best place for those of a more artistic lean or into performance. Think Hirst or Emin, their stuff is worth a packet and they ain't even dead yet. Most successful musicians went to art school as well: John Lennon, David Bowie, that bloke from Pulp. Probably the same for DJ's, not that I can name any off the top of my head. Movie Directors as well. Its a stepping stone. Even Art Therapy or teaching. Look at fashion, advertising, photographer or graphic designer. Hell, think art insurance assessor or auctioneer, you need to know your bling to value it. The choices are endless. Better than banking, spying or being stuck as a Xerox copy of your dad like Paul or Dimitry. Even if you just photograph cars, planes and motorbikes, its better than number crunching, ain't it. We can start by photographing all this stuff." Alex picked up the Moschino t-shirt and draped it over his Gap one. "I can model if you like. Most photographers take hundreds of photos and use one or two. Draw or paint this stuff, me, the fantastic vista outside. Look at your dad's collection of posters, art and vases. He bought them as investments but they are more than that. The blue ugly thing in the hall is Ming Dynasty, which cost more than my dad earns in a year."

Alex then pondered his own blinkered expectations; that maybe he should be considering alternatives to social work or activism. He still needed money to live and eat. He thought about Johannes and Tom's brother. Neither had nine to five boring jobs. He was fluent in several languages and could surf, dive, ski, snowboard, climb, had been a talented soccer player and was a black belt in karate. A long list, though he was not passionate about any of it , not anymore.

James had been surprised by his friends passionate interest in his own talents then his own internal self reflection, turn into darker self hatred. "Come on, my friend. We have a lot of stuff to sell. There's a shop in town specialising in designer cast offs. We can see if they're interested in this junk."

….

It was way too early, before dawn, as James crept out of his room in his best attempt at stealth. He closed his bedroom door and pondered the guest room, listened to Alex talking Russian in his sleep. He was OK to continue on. Downstairs, the room with the best view of the Italian Garden, was his dad's office. The door was slightly ajar. The teenager felt like he was intruding on his dad's me time as he could hear the early business news headlines on the BBC World Service. With a soft knock, James entered the room he normally only visited to be bollocked for bad behaviour or a poor school grades. "Dad, can we talk? I'm worried about Sasha."

As he listen to James' observations, ideas and loose game plan, he was suddenly so proud of the young man before him; putting friendship before his own wants and needs. /getting up early to talk to his father without fear of being disturbed. Concerned that his best friend, their hero, was concentrating on getting James on the right path, but using avoidance and diversions skilfully to hide his own uncertainties and insecurities.

The hardest job in his life had been parenting. His son was a fine young man exploring his future path with the same spirit and openness that he had found endearing in his ex-wife Blythe when they first met. The acrimony and bitterness of the divorce had affected James so badly. All the more for Blythe's poor choices at that time, putting her career before James, falling in love with her new manager; moving back to London. Then, she had concentrated more on fighting the prenuptial agreement than for joint or full custody of her only child. A document signed when it had been her fortune that was being safeguarded at the time of their engagement in 1985, when he had a net worth of a mere 5 million deutsche marks, not the billions at the time of their break up. The ex-model had ended their ten years of marriage with a more than generous £500,000 settlement, but had only then realised the family court in Dusseldorf did not consider her a fit mother, having being absent from her son's life & development decisions for over eighteen months.

She had kept every visitation and holiday since, but James had lost his faith and trust in her and in turn his links with his Scottish extended family. He had acted out as a teenager at being forced to go away, leading to the expulsion from school. It had been Blythe who contacted Dieter about that school. A joint parental decision, but a mistake James laid purely at his mother's door. At eighteen, James had no reason to still be in contact with his mother and had no plans to keep up the pretence of a relationship. He was not without fault, but had tried to be a balanced parent, giving good examples to follow, but working too hard had caused problems with Blythe and then James. He only dfollowed the example of his own father.

"This is meant to be a holiday for both of you, first and foremost. You have both finished school, which you both considered more a chore than a milestone. I think you must get Alex relaxed and distract him from his demons. Only when such worries no longer pray on him will he realise what he enjoys and what drives him, he will be inspired. His health will always be a consideration, but not the driving factor in who he is." Dieter then pondered his own choices at eighteen. "Yes, you are both expected to start your career path. It is not the simplicity of necessity, but consider I too was not the son my father expected or wished for. I am not a sportsman. I cannot abide football, his great passion, he played regionally into his early forties. I was studious, I liked numbers and patterns, logic and law. Things he had no time for. Its still my great joy playing the game of winning market projections. Its a form of gambling. My father died while I was still working for Deutsche Bank, not yet a fund manager. He respected my choices, but that were not what he would have done. You are your own man. No me, not your mother or your grandparents. You do have more choices, as I will back you as long as you are passionate, driven and most of all, happy."

….

Sir Cecil Marsden went through the package sent by Dieter Sprintz meticulously. He knew his predecessor had learned of the use of a teenager by Special Operations only after the fact. Now, Blunt's less than legal methods had been proven beyond doubt and in a way that cast the man in the worst light without putting his department under scrutiny. Misappropriation of funds was the polite way of saying outright fraud. He now had to chase down precisely how the £8million worth of assets belonging to nephew of Ian Rider had been dispersed in some creative money laundering. It was early afternoon before the phone call from the palace summoned him for an immediate audience. He might be inwardly cursing Dieter Sprintz for his excellent detective work, but sorting this out behind closed doors would be better in the long run. Bad enough they abused a fourteen year old and sent him abroad for the CIA's FUBAR, but to have defrauded the young man as well, the press would quite rightly be wanting full disclosure of all operational spending. He was already planning of one man taking the fall, As it was Blunt who had been named as both executor and guardian to the young man in question. The change of guardianship of young Mr. Rider in 2001 was highly suspicious, bringing into doubt the legality of Sarov's adoption; not that there was any chance of the Russian's disputing their own court's legalities. Blunt had used the change in nationality as a proof of treachery and therefore his grounds for his actions. A fact that would have no bearing in court as a child's inheritance was not to be squandered over such esoteric points of morality when the minor in question was being blackmailed and abused by all parties

…

After a week in Switzerland, he had been swimming, hiking and shopping with James after their clear out marathon. They were going to a music festival next week, accompanied by the least dour of the security staff. All paid for by the sale of unwanted gifts and clothes. Dieter had organised a fortnight in his villa in Spain in three weeks. Joe had been in contact briefly every day, mostly to say call hm if he needed to chat. Mom and Dad were in Maui, getting it on. He was slowly relaxing, as James explored his love of art and drew his surroundings and with his friend as muse at every opportunity. Even Dieter appreciated his son's raw talent. Alex had commandeered his friend's camera. He could take photos. He wondered how much a Nikon like James' would set him back.

The two sarcastic, loners were each others foil. Close and easy companionship, more real than his fiction of love with Paul. Maybe in Spain the two eighteen year old would go clubbing and try dating of the holiday romance variety, no strings and no expectations to muddy the water.


	6. Chapter 6

The cove was picture perfect and secluded, with no access for cars, so not attracting hoards of tourists, only walkers and boats. The water was azure. The waves gently rolled towards the pebbly sand beach at Playa Coll Baix. Alex was laid on his stomach on his towel, his fair skin covered in high factor sun screen. Alone for the first time in weeks as Jamie was sleeping off three nights clubbing at the villa and Dieter was playing golf. The teenager had walked from the town after getting dropped off in Alcudia by the early morning golf enthusiast. It had been early enough that the teenager had been the only person in the sea during his swim, he was now enjoying the mid morning sun drying his skin. In Europe, he could enjoy the freedom of bathing and sunbathing naked, with others of the same inclination. It was a habit he had acquired during communal banyas in Russia. It was something neither Joe and James would even consider. He had a suspicion that Dieter was more than he seemed, considering he had married a real fox twenty years ago and was getting it on with his sexy-strict housekeeper, without James' knowledge.

Too soon, as the sun reached is zenith, the alarm on his phone vibrated, it was time to walk back for his lunch appointment. He dressed, pulling on long shorts, loose cotton shirt and put on his trainers. It was a 45 minute walk back. Plenty of time to get there for one, when he was meeting up with James and their new friends.

The dusty trek back made Alex thirsty and gave his appetite an edge as the six hours since breakfast seem like eons since he had eaten. He arrived to see Jamie sat mooning at Nia. The ever present security today was Daniel sat at the bar, nursing a soda water, eyes on Dieter's only child and viewing all others are targets. Pixie was sat alone at another table, so Alex went to join her. Soon they were joined by the stragglers and the three girls and Alex were flirting with the waiter, ordering salads, bread, wine and sparkling water.

Pixie McDonagh was about to start her final year of medical school. She prided herself on being observant. During lunch she noted there were a series of scars on Sasha's lower arms, evidence of self harm and a suicide attempt. Jamie's quiet and charming friend with his sharp wit and dry humour was more than the well off teen without a worry that he appeared to be. As the man in question disappeared to the restroom, the bubbly blonde swapped tables to chat with the German.

She smiled and was open and friendly in her opening gambit for information, too polite to right out ask why Sasha was in need of overprotection "You are very keen for your friend to be included, you seem very close."

James had been waiting for one of the girls to figure that he was here for his friend first and dating second. "Sasha is the bravest person I know, but he has no sense of self preservation and tends to put everyone's happiness and wellbeing before his own. Does not help his boyfriend dumped him before Easter. There are eight of us, school friends from a while back, as close as family. Sasha and Paul started dating two summers ago and were the real deal, until Paul started his second semester at college and decided to play the field. So, my bro from DC has been really down, not helped by anxiety issues and his tendency to hide when he needs a helping hand. He's improving, chill-axing, even went to the beach alone this morning and he's been texting this guy, Johann, just as friends. My dad and Sasha's mom arranged this holiday, just to get him out of his mindset. His parent's are amazing, they're fully behind getting the best for him, long term with no compromises over support. Need to have that outlook considering they knew what they were taking on when they adopted Sasha."

It was a pure assumption on her part, but it sounded like the suicide attempt was from before his current placement. "My parents foster. I have had twenty seven part time siblings since the age of ten. So, I get where Sasha's coming from." Pixie then smiled at her friend and went with her game plan to cut the lovebirds some slack. "I think us singletons should go into Palma for some serious retail therapy considering your brother from another continent stated he was flush with poker winnings. Have fun with lover boy Nia as we're taking the car."

...

Dieter Sprintz reread the email from his secretary with the attached the scanned letter. Its contents had kept him awake. Krista was dealing with his business mail while he was on holiday, but had sent this confidential correspondence on despite his parting note that he was not to be disturbed except for a genuine crisis. A hand written letter from The Hon. Commander Grafton-Cuthbert, Court Equerry had written on behalf of Her Majesty. The gist of the missive was apologetic and conveyed that the British Head of State was appalled by the actions of a man while acting in her name for the security of all her subjects and then concluded there was little that could be done over money long since dispersed. They were not even offering any restitution or compensation to a child thrown to the wolves; nothing for his hurt and losses.

The financier could turn a profit of several million in a matter of days, when he picked the right target. In his sights were Blunt's close associates, those behind that man's return to the public eye. Nothing hurt those decent Home Counties sort of people more than markets turning bear, stock tumbling and jittery stockholders blaming their directors for their losses. Acting as a lone wolf, the financier could act with cold logic for both profit and revenge. It would take stealth and luck to bring down those highly placed right wing political movers and shakers. As a foreigner, rules stated he could not influence British Politics and he had no wish to hand funds to opposition politicians who were just as amoral. The gloves were off, he had tried to be a gentleman, but being a sneak would work just as well.

In the grey pre-dawn light, Dieter switched on his computer and started to draw up a list of companies on the FTSE 100 associated with the ultra right wing in . From several holding companies, using an algorithm, and a moderate slush fund, he would slowly amass share blocks when the market price dipped 5% below average. It might take him two or three years to amass enough to hurt. When he had enough shares on the next rise in London he would dump the lot, causing a panic. He would spend twenty to thirty million, turning an substantial profit and hopefully get all Blunt's friends outed by their own boards in the ensuring freefall. Cutting many heads off the hydra at once. Not the man directly, but he had heard from Alex that a journalist already had the ex-spymaster in his sights.

Already in his portfolio were a large block of shares in Sir David Friend's various holdings, held as he could not decide if the man was just a pawn or complicit. He had made a note in the society pages his ex-wife in the company of the chairman of the supermarket chain with his wife, daughter and Mr. and Mrs. Blunt at the Epsom Derby in June. It all linked back to the school. Guilt still ate at him over his role in trying to deal with his alienated, difficult son. It had been Blythe who had first suggested Point Blanc as the perfect solution for their son, who hated his mother for leaving and had grown distant from his father at boarding school. Dieter knew he was equally to blame as he had thrown himself into work to deal with his own sense of abandonment, failure, hurt and resentment over the divorce. Blunt may have been working on information supplied by Michael Roscoe, but he placed another innocent in danger, to be threatened, exploited and nearly killed rather than act directly and responsibly. Using Alex had cost no actual MI6 operatives, as the loss the fourteen year old would only have enriched the man as the next named recipient in Ian Rider's will. After Alex's brief imprisonment by the FSB in Russia, Blunt had burned all references to Alexander John Rider in their files. There had been no review of the loss within his department, just the cleaning up of their records as if Ian Rider's nephew had never crossed their path, saving thousands during his brief career in espionage.

…

Snippets of information regarding his time in operations and in Russia had started the slow drip towards revenge from several quarters. His parents knew all about the true horror after his two years in family therapy, which had undoubtedly influenced his mother's decision to move over to the State Department, so she had direct influence on future US foreign policy, a woman with her eyes on their allies for dirty tricks as well as their enemies. His dad played golf with several members of the National Security Council, where his adopted son was known as a former underage asset traded back in 2003, when granted full protection for services to national security. The teenager had purposely cultivated a friendship with James' cold and analytical father. In the process, finding out that Dieter Spritz was plotting to financially ruin for all who had a hand in hurting his son, Now the billionaire he had added his son's true friend and saviour into his plans as the best way to liquidate years of ill gotten gains. As a logical trade off, the former spy had dated Paul Roscoe as part of his game plan, as was his decision to work to remain close friends after their break up.

The unhappy thought of following Grief's grand plan made him feel dirty, as he made the same connections those clones had been created to exploit. The thought of being anything like Julius was guaranteed to keep him awake at night. Trying to distract himself from his machiavellian plotting, Alex pondered the wild card of Edward Pleasure's book as he drew a very early morning bath. Publication, not in the UK where litigation over national security was a cert, but in the USA under the auspices of freedom of speech and public interest. CIA black ops or the FSB's tactical use of the teenager were not the target as Alex had been Blunt's chew toy in the first place. The Royal and General Bank worked in the shadows, but were still accountable to SIS headquarters at Albert Embankment. Blunt deserved his comeuppance for using Julius in his bid to erase Alex from history.

Nearly two AM in the morning, the eighteen year old lowered himself into the piping hot water to try and scrub himself clean.

…

The villa was under discrete round the clock surveillance, under instruction to access and counteract external threats. The monitors were located in a office above the garage with an entrance to the house via the kitchen. All a bit basic compared to the set up in Switzerland as the operatives had to stick to a cold packup and flask. No full time housekeeper here leaving you treats to wile away the dead hours, which in turn necessitated the guards spending extra hours in the gym to burn the excess calories off.

Kip was on the graveyard shift as he occasionally appraised the monitors and did his two circuits round the grounds before his change over at six. Another night when no cars came near, so he could read the sport pages several times over. A well paid and easy end of a long career as grunt with three tours with the SAS, then a less savoury stint as a mercenary, before settling for close personal protection detail for the paranoid Mr. Sprintz. He was well aware that the yank kid had clocked all of the cameras within ten minutes of arrival, and made a game of spotting each guard that followed the oblivious Jamie. Eighteen with better instincts than most of his colleagues, the crippling insomnia and too many nightmares as a result of escaping two kidnapping ordeals. Tonight, Sasha had settled down at three and would be out for a run as Kip went to his own bed. He made a note of the bath, then the kid muttering in Russian about hunting as he slept. The tall welshman was putting on his coat at five for his final perimeter check when there was the crash of a breaking ornament in the guest bedroom. With the silent grace of a seasoned professional, the bodyguard was in the house and up the stairs in seconds.


	7. Chapter 7

The Hospital in Palma was decorated in calm tones with friendly, efficient and calm staff, but being trapped here still set Alex on edge, not a good place to be after having the worst asthma attack of his life. What was the point of adhering to his game plan, when his own body's failings could kill him? Going back over the events of this morning, considering the complete panic he'd working himself into after his breathing exercises had failed to work and he could not find his reliever inhaler and that if he had not knocked over the lamp no one would have known about his distress. Then the security guard had burst in like Rambo, causing Alex to panic even more and then faint. He shuddered remembering coming round in the Emergency Room, trying to throw himself on the floor and getting held down and tranquillised. The young, eager and efficient emergency room doctor, who had then insisted on the added torture of x-rays to explain his patient's very poor oxygen levels, despite the said patient insisting this was normal for him. Dr. Cortez could not believe an affluent American teenager could have lung damage from pulmonary tuberculosis.

He was now resting in a very anodyne private room with a panoramic view of the hospital car park, dressed in a blue gown, on oxygen and feeling like death warmed up after his early morning terrifying episode.

All tests done and dusted, results pending, all drama over and now he knew he should just give into the effects of the medication and sleep, but he was worrying about his parents and brother's reaction; who were likely to insist he came straight home just as he was starting to enjoy life back in Europe, where he had felt like he really belonged. He was sick of hiding his past, when he'd fallen into the habit of letting Joe give the background to his brother's heavily redacted life. He enjoyed conversing in German, French and Castilian and the bit of Catalan he remembered from his cosmopolitan childhood. He had even moved on from his annoying habit of weighing up the pros and cons of friendships.

The grim reality for the eighteen year old was that rather than sunning himself on the beach, he was here on his own alone until visiting hours this afternoon. At least Dieter had been here until just after nine, leaving once Alex was had been settled in his room.

With no phone, Alex could not contact Jamie or better still Lola. It was hours to visiting and the doctor had stated it would be at least an overnight stay and that he could only be discharged by the asthma specialist and psychologist. The eighteen year old briefly considered just leaving, but he had no clothes to change into. Then he realised that the security guy, Dieter, James and the two guys in the ambulance had seen him buck naked on the floor making a complete arse of himself. He rubbed his eyes and prayed his sleep was not interrupted by vivid images of his and his closest friends terrifying alternatives. In his twisted imagination, even Lola and Grandma Fran were transforming psycho doppelgängers plotting for world domination.

Rather than sleep, Alex started the game of memorising car types and colours in the car park.

….

Sabina Pleasure had seen her dad at his lowest and most emotional in those dark days during his long slow recovery after the bombing of their villa in Nice. She was aware that he tried to be very balanced about his job; to see both sides of the story, as nothing and no one was black and white. This afternoon, he returned home from Russia visibly shaken. Mum had picked him up as usual after an overseas trip. On getting home, their late lunch had been accompanied by a bottle of wine. She was perplexed at the cause of this change in routine as his visit had simply been following a last minute lead before the final edit of his book. She could not stand atmosphere with the polite and stilted conversation, as her parents avoided the issue that was obviously not suitable for their nearly twenty year old daughter.

She came downstairs at five, when her dad was sat in the living room staring at BBC News 24, but looking red eyed and grim. Liz was sat across from him with her barely touched glass of wine, but her dad had moved on to make a dent into his Irish malt whiskey. The tall blond pulled her long hair into a loose topknot and pondered if someone died? Moving on to the kitchen, looking in the fridge at the scant offerings, she calculated the only option for dinner was some sort of pasta. Calling into the living room to seek advice as she was hungry, "How does carbonara sound?"

Liz came into the kitchen, closing the door as she came through and spoke quietly "I'll order a takeaway. All Dad's favourites tonight, as he is in dire need of cheering up." The older woman decided to share what little her husband had spoken of, she was not under any need to protect sources, not when such information gathering had added years to her husband overnight. "He's had a real shock. His contact in Moscow was actually a state security sting. Your father got to see inside the Lubiyanka. They let him go, eventually. The whole charade was all just to give him a scare. From what Ed has told me, it's hours of interrogation on some spy codenamed Cub."

Sabina felt sorry that some poor guy got stuck with that awful pseudonym.

….

It had been the worst three days of his eventful life, as he arrived back at his one bedroomed flat in Battersea. Trevor 'Smiley' Smallbone had worked as personal security consultant for Edward Pleasure for nearly four years. He liked the bloke and his family. This gig provided enough to cover his living expenses, with his occasional other work as a bouncer to pseudo-celebs providing the profit. The threats to the journalist were real, making him work for his money not just stand around looking threatening This last trip to Russia had been a nightmare, as they had been suckered into a trap laid by the FSB. It all boiled down to those scary bastards letting the man know that Sasha Canterbury was under their protection and his disclosure of events had to be in a way not to harm their little hero.

The rumour mill from those graduating as Special Forces still spoke of the kid known as 'Cub' or 'Double O Nothing'. The whole thing viewed as a bit of a joke. For hours, he had no choice but to sit with the Edward and watch the video nasty, which proved that the mere two days of Resistance to Interrogation training were woefully inadequate.

The retired soldier memorised the dates and times shown on each short sequence. Seven separate interrogations, where from experience he could recognise that some were under the influence of truth serum, some under extreme duress of sleep deprivation and other well tried and tested methods to weaken resistance, and some under hypnosis. All interviews were in english. He surmised the kid with practically no knowledge of Russian when he captured by the FSB.

It all ended, with smiles and promises that they were all friends; as the TV was turned off. After the sharing had stopped, with a tight throat, Trevor had sipped of stone cold tea and then wondered why had the Russian's were sharing their proof of the inhuman treatment of a child by the SAS, the CIA and MI6? All sequences on the video dealt on the blackmail and abduction of a child who was forced to participate in training and then operations. Not a single waver from the kid. This was the truth. The only answer was this teenager was Cub, who had spoken of Blunt forcing him into Special Operations, training at Brecon in March 2001 and who crossed the path of the SAS in London during the Stormbreaker launch and a month later during the storming of that exculsive academy near Grenoble. Trevor felt ashamed as a kid under no circumstances should have been used for such dangerous missions.

He could not answer for the SAS, as dirty tricks from Blunt had been in play, but he could let his unit know that their unofficial unit member was OK and that all at MI6 Black Ops deserved shafting.

….

Edward finished his madras, mopping up the sauce on his plate with the garlic naan, pondering all now he was sober. Things did not quite add up. There was one piece of the puzzle he was missing. He really needed to speak to Sasha again. As they left the infamous headquarters of the secret police, Edward pondered the last short clip, the only sequence with no date/time encoding. It was not Alex, he was sure. That teenager had a superficial resemblance but had been far too flabby, the body language too arrogant and superior. It had to link back to Point Blanc, had the Russians gotten hold of the Grief clone. The journalist was under the impression five had apprehended in France and one in the US. Only there had been eight students. The unaccounted for clones were duplicates of Alex and Dimtry Ivanov.

….

The owner of the villa had been aware of regular pool maintenance, but had no idea the chemicals used could affect damaged lungs so dramatically. He had noted that his son used the pool daily, but Sasha preferred the sea, like himself. Only last night had he understood the reason his son's friend wore a medical alert bracelet. He had then learned the young man's first asthma attack had been after having an adverse reaction to indoor swimming at high school.

After corresponding with Joe Canterbury, he had been surprised by the return email from Mrs. Graylow, the grandmother who had taken charge while her daughter and son in law were enjoying their own holiday. She spoke of episodes in the past and how to handle a silent, difficult teenager who rarely communicated his ills. You had to pander to the fact Sasha expected no help, no comfort and was still surprised by empathy and TLC.

At three o'clock on the dot, Dieter Sprintz entered the room on the fourth floor of Son Llatzer Hospital, waking the patient as he entered. He noted the young man looked iller than he had this morning. "Good Afternoon, Sasha. Your Grandmother e-mailed me with a list of detailed instructions and your aversion to hospitals hindering your recovery not aiding it. I have brought a change of clothes and I have employed some agency nurses to provide the necessary home care; so you can be discharged straight away. We have moved your bedroom to the guest room on the garden side downstairs, so no chance of fumes from shocking the pool causing another asthma attack. You must adhere to the recommendations of the doctor, so bed rest and remaining on oxygen for the next two days."

With a bright smile, Alex relax with the good news he was getting sprung from this hell of quiet introspection, inedible food and no privacy. "You are the best, Dieter. I promise to be on my best behaviour as I do not want a return visit here."

The German drove back with a sleeping teenager beside him. His son still had nightmares, how much worse was it for Sasha considering the horrors he had survived? Maybe he should engage with this teenager more, find some common ground. He had enjoyed playing an engaging game of poker with him. Sasha had more of a head for feigning and counting cards than the security guys who he played with regularly. Maybe he should introduce his son's friend to the similarities of gambling to the game of international finance.


	8. Chapter 8

Mid afternoon, James arrived back at the villa, his car skidded to a stop, parked askew from his father's BMW and then the driver sauntering into the side garden. There, lounging on the shaded sunbed, was Alex, looking pale and strangely wrapped in a brightly coloured quilt despite the balmy mid thirty degree heat (C). The observer noted his friend was still on oxygen, despite the doctor being here this morning. The reclining form had not moved, so was definitely fast asleep. The skinny brunette, sat on the wall opposite, pulling a pencil and pad from his beach bag and started to sketch. After twenty minutes his phone vibrated, Joe was wanting an update.

Moving to the pool before answering, to hear the bossy American state "Yo, Jamie. How's our baby bro?"

Jamie was not going to give the bad news that his brother was far from well, so instead stuck with the few positive certainties. "Sasha's snoozing in the garden. You should be happy he's been totally mothered by Dad, Lena and all the security guys. He's catching up on not sleeping right since he left you guys. You'll see him next Wednesday anyway. We'll both be there for the big party."

The curt reply was "Sure, get Sasha to email me, when he's conscious." Letting Jamie know that he was not impressed by being kept out of the loop.

…..

Joe put down his phone. So, confirmation that Alex-baby was too tired to pick up his emails. The main clue all was not well was that James had been far too positive and upbeat, maybe it was down to him dating, but it was more likely to be a large case of covering up for Sasha being Sasha; where the months of stress caused by lying had caused this break in his health. His brother was the king of avoidance and denial. The dark haired eighteen year old sat back and exhaled loudly, trying to plan ahead; but then composed the blunt truth of his worries to his dad. Their brother would either learn from this, turn himself around or it would mean another stay in hospital until he stopped lying to himself that he was OK and everything was good. Sleeping for nearly three days, meant the sneaky shit had been crippled by months of insomnia, only visiting Joe due to nightmares. The impact of the asthma compounded by eating only when forced by family commitments, to appear to be functioning within normal parameters. Everyone tried to be around for dinner, but lunch and breakfast were far too easily avoided altogether, since the scary housekeeper had retired. That bitch used to watch Sasha like a hawk and also do the best pack ups for school.

The big brother hated the change in family priorities, as his main project for the last two years was 3000 miles away. He had to hand it to his mother, as the only other person proficient enough in tough love was Dieter Sprintz, who had years of managing his own difficult son; but James' lying, anger and avoidance issues were a walk in the park compared to spy boy.

A group email to Nick, Hugo, Cassian and Tom was also sent into the ether, to keep his friends in the loop. Next week the whole Point Blanc crew were in DC for the Canterbury's wedding anniversary party. His parents had even invited the asshats Paul and Dimitri.

…..

Alex had heard the phone vibrate and had listened in to James give the worst pep talk ever to Joe. It was easier to drift back to sleep than pretend to be feeling better, as he was absolutely shattered. He had spent his few waking moments over the last two days pondering his choices to date and now got the point of his summer in Europe. It was Ma and Pa cutting the apron strings, as their adopted son was far too comfy hiding in his cosy nest. It was time for him to spread his wings and fly away. The same could be said for James, another kid happy to exist hiding in his room. It was Point Blanc induced agoraphobia.

Dieter worried about his son; but was of the opinion, at eighteen, Jamie should leave home, abate with necessary security. The budding artist was already planning to submit his summer work art portfolio for a late admission to Art School in Dusseldorf. Mimi and Charles were also trying to prod Sasha into be proactive, but in a careful and controlled environment. He was damn sure he was going to tread carefully. Dieter had discussed his current finance projects at breakfast this morning. He made it sound like a game. A bit like Ian used to about everything from picking pockets to hot-wiring cars, to trailing a target and blending in like a local. Maybe, getting rich could be a game to play for a while. It sounded like the billionaire was sounding him out and thinking over offering him a job. PA to the financier was not a bad starting position.

Dieter had grumbled about his secretary retiring in October and that he would be hard pressed to find an equally trustworthy replacement. Alex fit the job requirements as he could type proficiently, knew shorthand, could speak several languages and was in the limited circle of the Sprintz personal friends, and would never jeopardise that position for any reason. Jamie was a true friend and by association, so was his father.

Rather than take purely academic subjects at High School, Sasha Canterbury had taken several practical vocational courses offered, including Business and Computer Studies, as he had always been unsure about further education, when a nursing career had seemed the lesser of all evils. Working in Germany and Switzerland would mean independence which met his parent's ideal acceptable criteria. His could also bet his boss would also throw in business jet trips home for holidays at Thanksgiving, Christmas, Spring Break and Summer.

…..

The business jet taxied to a stop by the single hangar at York Airfield. A very ordinary SUV was waiting for its passengers. Dieter Sprintz for the first time in four years was travelling without security. Mrs. Graylow had insisted it was not necessary, not in rural Pennsylvania when every farm within ten miles were aware that her grandson had been abducted in Georgetown in 2003 and were all fiercely protective of those they considered family. She had joked that Bill, who now farmed the Graylow holding, was ex-Army and was using her guests arrival as a reason to patrol with several other veterans, much to the amusement of the local sheriff and his deputies.

Fran was used to living in a close knit community where all looked out for each other. At eighty-three, she needed her neighbours more than ever. Like clockwork, Bill's wife, Cindy popped in every day. They shopped together. Sometimes she wished she was closer to Mimi and her boys, but she had lived in this house since 1946. Her daughter had thrown herself into her career thinking she was barren, then Joe came along when she was forty and already a top lawyer. Another son arrived from Russia in 2005. She had become a mother bear to that fragile boy, determined that he would always come home to her. The old woman had missed Sasha something fierce. Now he was back. Doctor Hammond was popping in later this afternoon to give the ailing young man the once over.

The American Immigrant sighed as the door opened. The summer breeze here smelt like home unlike London or the Russian forests. He was already salivating in anticipation of his Grandma's provender at the Graylow Farm. Jamie knew from his past visits that there would be fresh peaches baked into pies, fresh white corn and steaks on the barbecue. Alex's favourites were biscuits and oatmeal with raisins for breakfast, like his dear departed Grandfather.

As Dieter followed the teenagers down the steps, Mrs Graylow kissed both boys and then hugged the financier and then started bossing them all into action. "Welcome, get your bags in the trunk, boys in the back, Dieter ride shotgun. I need a cup of coffee."

…..

Working was a pain in the ass, making Joe truly thankful for his week off. Not that he could spend the next seven days in bed: not when he had a brother to scold and coddle, a family celebration to attend and some serious partying with his BFFs to fill his time off. The two hour drive to the farm was nearly over and he could spend the weekend stuffing his face and finally getting the low down on all that was going through his brother's head. Grandma had been very dismissive of his worries over the phone, but the old crone was firmly in the Sasha fan club. Even so, her doctor had been on a home visit to check baby bro out and had stated good food, clean air, sunshine, light exercise and plenty of rest were the best medicine and with practical lifestyle management there would be no further near death episodes. He arrived to witness James, Dieter, Bill and Sasha playing softball in the yard. That meant Gran and Cindy were in the kitchen gossiping. At a glance, his brother looked fitter and happier. Though that was tempered by the knowledge there was an oxygen tank in the downstairs guest room, where Alex was sleeping a door away from the light sleeping octogenarian.

Alex ran over to the dark blue Mini as soon as he saw it. He practically threw himself at Joe for a much missed hug, just realised that he had been terminally homesick and could not contain his joy intermixed with longing and the realisation that his idyllic two years of childhood was over. He could not help but break down in tears, happy ones for a change, even if his brother was freaking out at this unexpected outpouring of emotion. True, the family dynamics were shifting and no amount of sulking, hiding or any other childish antics would change that fact. In two months, everyone would be living separate lives, with only intermittent family get togethers. Adulthood loomed, but it was not spies, assassins or agencies the teenager needed to fear. He was still protected by family and friends. He now had to learn to be self reliant and resilient. There was no need for revenge as the past was another country, in his case several other countries as neither England, Cuba or Russia were places he wanted nor needed to visit ever again. Next week, he would see Dimitri and Valentin again for the first time in two years. He was in a much better place than he had been then, but he still had some healing to do. Secure in the knowledge that he could always rely on those close to him to pick up the pieces when he did go off the rails.

Joe stroked his brother's hair as murmured soft reassurances. All onlookers had retreated to the house to give them some privacy. He could not remember Alex being so emotional ever. He frowned, deeply concerned over the uncontrolled sobs coming from Sasha.

Close to hiccups and far too snotty for comfort, the younger blonde broke his death grip hug and wiped his face on his baseball shirt sleeve. "God, I've missed you. To think its taken a holiday away for me to realise that you are my family and that its OK to have genuine emotional attachments. Hell, Joe! You look like I felt two weeks ago. Come and get a glass of milk and two dozen chocolate walnut cookies and chill. Gran'll bake you some more tomorrow. Quick, get inside so she can smother twice as bad as I just did."

After weeks of feeling cut off, Joe Canterbury felt the shadow of worry leave him. Sasha was getting back into his mojo. He could go to college and not feel guilty about their separation. Thank God, his mother was always thinking four moves ahead, all the fractured friendship would begin to heal as well. Stronger together, even if they were living thousands of miles apart.


	9. Chapter 9

The courier dropped a large box on Sasha Canterbury's desk, barely paying any attention to his surroundings, just the nameplate on the desk. He then pushed his clipboard under the recipients nose. Alex signed in Cyrillic, while noting the box hailed from Dimension Publishing, New York. He knew precisely who had sent the gift and what it contained. Deftly, the parcel tape was cut with his Swiss Army knife and six copies of _Blunt: The Fall of the Spy Master - MI6 Black Operations between 1984 and 2005_ were revealed. Scanning the contents page, which named the operations in black and white detailing the fall of his own biological family. Bitterly Sasha thought there were no more Rider's to use like chess pieces as he had survived only because of his two adoptions by powerful well connected parents. He was positive all his luck had been used up when begging Sarov to avoid nuclear catastrophe.

Each book had been signed by the author. He turned back the front page. The personal note accompanying the book made him smile it said ' _Sasha, I wish I had the ability to bestow three wishes like a djinn, may you have health, wealth and happiness always, your faithful servant and true friend Edward_ '. The trainee PA smiled and picked up the second copy and moved to the office door, knocking twice as was his habit before entering; as he had already made sure the phone line was not live.

He stepped in and closed the door softly. "Dieter, I have a present for you. Chapters 7, 8 and 9 are relevant if you wish to speed read about my misadventures. Give me the weekend and I'll translate them to German, if you'd prefer?" The blond PA walked forward to place the book in front of his boss.

The German looked at the cover and scowled. "Thank you, but translation will not be necessary. I will read this advance copy before coming over to dinner tonight, then James can read it too. I have wondered what Mr. Pleasure made of our tales of that school and those abominations created by Grief and Stellenbosch."

In August, Dieter had insisted on meeting the reporter to satisfy himself that he was not out to use Sasha. "You never told me what you thought about Edward? I like him. He's very straight, moral and true." The misused former spy would have not said a word to any journalist, but Ed was adamant not to compromise any source, but especially a family friend. He had never put names, dates or any personal details about confidential sources in his notes. Just those video interviews as proof, face obscured and the use of his bad original accent. Though MI6 knew precisely who the teenager in question was and what he was up to these days.

Alex was not surprised that the financier did not reply as he was already engrossed in the book, speed reading chapter 7, while making quick notes in the margins. The observer guessed he would be emailing Edward with a stunning blunt critique before the end of play today. The PA went back to his own pile of correspondence, as he would courier copies to his family in DC, Pennsylvania and California.

Life was good, living in Dusseldorf, sharing a spacious apartment with James. Work was split between three days working with Dieter, here at the office with his dedicated team of underlings, then two days of solitary self education about currencies, bonds, finance, markets and the nitty gritty of what was very dodgy, then the sort of legal if you squinted a bit, but could get away with. Alex was fascinated by the whole deal between legal trading of bullion, diamonds, bonds, currencies, electronic transfers vs. money laundering. He had a pile of reading to catch up on. All Dieter's recommendations, as the man stated you needed to keep ahead of the game to make the big breaks. Most big institutions could bend the rules in their own favour most of the time and by sheer size control most transactions, but the smaller companies were limited to being clever and sneaky. Dieter Sprintz was gifted and tenacious, his gains making him very unpopular in a dog eat dog world. Luck had also played its part, making comparisons with gambling very relevant.

Alex finished his pile for the post and then got on with real work not wool gathering. He had notes of the team meeting this morning to type up for checking with its detailed outlines, goals, targets and projected failures. Overall, the projections were above targets for the European and American projects. Only breaking even in the Far East. Alex also had reports on his observations on the team to finalise. Dieter trusting his proteges's instincts already.

At 4:45pm, James texted as he was on his way home after his last class of the day. Dieter would be flying back to Lucerne after a family dinner. Alex had prepared the food for his friend to serve, but rather than play third wheel he was out on a 'date', mostly to appear to be normal than any actual belief in forming trusting relationships. The PA finished up. The diary for next week did not need any last minute changes. With work backed up and placed on hard drive and the datastick. As per Dieter's peculiarities, no files saved on the network or sent via email. One placed in the safe at the apartment and the other for his boss to read over at his leisure. Alex dealt with mail on Mondays and Fridays and phone calls, forwarding only items deemed to the boss if deemed urgent and/or personal. He put on his jacket, phoned for Dieter's car to be made ready and went in to disturb the man who had a family dinner pending. All Jamie had to do was reheat the prepared lasagne and throw together a green salad. The American spent his weekends preparing ahead meals for these weekly events. These dinners made Sasha yearn for his own family, thanksgiving could not come soon enough. The teenager did not reflect on the abuse he had suffered, as he spared no thought to fallout from Edward's book. He was not the only one hurt and misused by Alan Blunt, a man who had a high profile, vocal opponent in Miss Jack Starbright. No threats of breaking the OSA would affect her and her legal team, not when faced with her constitutional right to free speech on her home soil.

….

At the bar, Karl Lindstrom waited for his date to arrive, fashionably late. A month of playful flirting across the office, and after asking the new guy out three times last week, Sasha had cautiously agreed to meet for a drink after work. Rumours around the office stated the new PA was the best friend, sharing a flat with, their boss' son, a close family friend and trusted. The Dane had the suspicion the old man had picked this eighteen year old as an apprentice, not a mere PA. He was just a numbers man, honing the computer algorithms to adapt their trading patterns for maximum profit, never one to gamble nor have any control over the money or beholden to the investors. He pulled out a stick of gum, the only sign he was an ex-smoker craving that particular fix. Nervousness not helped by the doubts clouding his mind: too old to proposition a school leaver, so soon after coming out of the closet himself. He was past regretting that decision and its consequences, as he had no way home after his pastor father called him the devil incarnate. So much for the sexual equality in the law when your own family could not forgive your sexuality. He was not the type to casually sleep around, go to clubs or turkish baths. He was after long term, wanting a partner, happiness and security. A goal he was prepared to work towards. He thought back to Sasha's first day in the office introducing himself as gay as bold as brass. The fact a gorgeous young man, openly out and proud, was hesitant at dating spoke of similar goals or just a heartbreak at home in the US.

Alex arrived just before six. As usual he had gone the long way from the office, doubling back on himself, just to make sure he had no one tailing him. The bar was quiet, not surprising for this large hotel early on a Thursday. The eighteen year old had been fine with flirting and office banter. The drinks invitation may just lead to a friendship, as it had with Lola, but he could bet Karl was after something more. The PA smiled as he was definitely not averse to the pleasures of sex, even just as friends with benefits. Maybe he was being cynical as he now viewed his relationship with Paul as just that. Phoney love wit the veneer of something more serious. Truthfully, they had been too young to realise they were not compatible. What did he want? A drink for sure, anything beyond that was open to negotiation. To think he was too cynical to hope to replicate Mimi and Charlie, who had married at eighteen and were still young at heart forty years later.

…

Karl arrived back at his flat, reeling from his engaging conversation with world weary, sarcastic, mature and sexually aware eighteen year old. Not a kid by any measure, despite his youth. He wondered if the young Sprintz heir was cut from the same cloth, as James had decided to follow a very different path from his father and yet was OK with his best friend working so closely with the financier. He had not expected such a battle of wits over his martini. At least he had been invited over for dinner on sunday, for informal pizza, beer and watching a game on TV. With an American that could mean their version of football, baseball, hockey or even soccer. Sasha had been surprised that Karl wanted more than sex or friendship and had not been surprised by the reaction of Karl's family. Sasha's best friend in DC had been thrown out and disowned for being transexual and was now female. He had also learned that Sasha was open about his desires and preferences. Sex was on the cards, but only if he got on with Jamie. He had also been warned that his older brother was very protective and not be be frightened by his bark as there was no chance of any actual violence.

…..

The Assistant Cultural Attache at the British Consulate in New York was the official title for an officer in MI6 in charge of security. He had procured an advanced copy of the blatant hack unauthorised Biography of Alan Blunt. The author justifiably had reason to agitate the security services as he had uncovered to plots to national security that had slipped past Blunt during his tenure. The Security Operative could see no reason to attempt a high profile legal case against a book that was guaranteed to be a best-seller this Christmas, with a big launch planned for October. The publication was primarily historical, all operations disclosed were pre 9/11. As a slippery bastard of the highest order, Blunt was likely to use the publicity in his favour as who was going to believe he used a fourteen year old as an operative. He posted the copy to London with his brief report and recommendation to neither confirm or deny anything printed as his department had more important leads to chase and would not waste its budget on lawyers. Blunt would have to do that as he was a private individual with no current connection to and damn few allies at SIS. The officer made the observation that when you were completely ruthless in your rise to power and while in post, you made enemies of all who you used, abused and stepped on. Those allied to Blunt now had never been personally burned by the man.

….

Sir David Friend read and reread the chapters of a book faxed to him by Dieter Sprintz. So, the boy Alexander was alive. The attached letter also made him aware that that child had been in Russian 'protective custody' for nearly two years and had been part of an exchange in 2003, so was now an American citizen, to escape the abuse of Alan Blunt. The book had confirmation of the use of this teenager by MI6 from three SAS sources, an ex-MI6 officer and Alexander's former housekeeper. The journalist had done a very thorough job. He picked up the phone to call the current head of MI6 to discuss this situation. The journalist did not mention the supermarket chain owner by name, but anyone with half a brain would connect to to him by the details given. After he left his details with the secretary, he wondered if he had made a mistake refusing an interview with Edward Pleasure not once but three times. His wife had been a friend of Damian Cray and could still not believe that gentle soul was the demon described by the journalist. Now, they were child abusers by association, for housing a child for four days before he was placed in imminent danger. He had to plan to avoid blowback that would affect share prices and his company. That American conglomerate was itching to take over. Selling his shares now would allow him to move to Switzerland or Monaco far from the stink raised over this book.


	10. Chapter 10

Alex Canterbury occasionally watched sports or a film James was interested in, but generally he preferred radio to TV. He had not been to a theatre since he left school. His flatmate had a bad habit of still watching kid's programmes most of the time, as if he was catching up on all the TV hours missed at boarding school. This Monday morning BBC News was on at 6AM, Jamie was already sat eating cereal engrossed in the big story: Edward's book trashing Blunt had the press asking who was this 'Cub' used in operations in 2001. The nickname made Jamie cough out his cereal in an attempt to conceal his amusement.

Alex rolled his eyes, one name he truly hated. "Laugh it up, but if you call me that I will hurt you in ways that leave no bruises."

Jamie put down his bowl and spoon, wiped the milk dribble from his chin and held up both hands in submission, "Pax, Sasha-baby. I'm well aware I'm no match for your super sneaky spy skills. None of us would never do anything to remind you of those bastards in Wales anyway. Your nightmares make mine seem tame in comparison."

Alex shrugged and shock his head before heading to the freezer to get out a bagel, wanting a very American breakfast this morning. He continued with the assertion that Jamie had thought the rescue had been thrilling. "You still think Wolfie was cool taking a bullet from Stomachbag."

"Maybe, but those bastards took two days to come and save us after you raised the alarm after I disappeared into the dungeon replaced by my 'clone'. 48 hours when the Griefs could easily have killed us all. Live vivisection remember. Threats against all of us and our families. Fuck them all to hell." Jamie's phone distracted him from his rant with an email from his dad, with the familiar alert using the theme to Goldfinger. "By the way, Dad has made a killing selling his supermarket shares to the Texans."

Alex knew it was not just Dieter who had timed this payout, but Rudi Vries and Anthony Marc had also been part of the pact to play hard ball with Blunt's allies. This would have taken the wind out of David Friend's plan to negotiate from a position of strength over the hostile takeover. One gameplay that had kept the American immigrant amused by its sheer audacity in spending over three million euros to achieve.

"So, where are you and Karlo going out tonight?" James said after changing the channel to cartoons.

Alex was concentrating on spreading a more than generous amount of cream cheese on his toasted bagel, thinking that he had twenty minutes to relax before going to the gym. "His place. Romantic candle lit supper for those brain dead enough to need such rituals. Time to see if its more than friends. I have missed sex so much. For all his faults, Paul was not a bad fuck, if only he'd been more open minded about quid quo pro."

"He was just into macho bullshit. Ass for letting you go after promising you the moon and stars. Thank God you and I are cynical bastards". Jamie was thankful for the nudge in the right direction on gifts and gestures of affection to Nia from his dad and the security team. Girls expected things like that. Maybe he should let the Danish guy know he was trying too hard, Sasha was not in need of overt signs of affection or displays of romance. He was a guy who liked guys, but did not need to be treated like he was a girl. He shook his head, Karl needed to find that out for himself. The German then thought of setting a new wager with Joe, that the suitor would be invited to the Canterbury Christmas celebrations, then skiing in Colorado. He sent off his email and awaited the very potty mouth response.

….

Alan Blunt was in Oman visiting old friends and to strengthen his finger hold within the global security market, when he heard about the grubbing coming his way from the former Guardian investigative journalist. He had paid it no mind as he had no skeletons to hide, but on reading the finished text it was obvious Pleasure had spoken to Anthony Sean Howell, the SCORPIA traitor in prison in the Northern Territories. He doubted Alexander Canterbury had been found out. The teenager stayed within his close circle of family and friends, all powerful and well connected enough to protect him. Ash had witnessed Ian Rider's will. The journalist may already have a copy of it. The grey haired man knew his wife would never have put a family ward in danger. Cecily Blunt, nee Marchant, had never paid any attention to his work, but this would affect her. Yet, he had received no calls from MI6 nor any allies in England about this. He expected no warnings from the CIA, they thought him morally repugnant for not bargaining with the Russians directly over his teen operative. It was their mess in the first place. Only now they had made the whole Sarov business seem like that bastard had saved the young Rider from his abusive appointed guardian. He had the option of darkening Ian Rider as the one to train his nephew, and been the first to use him in operations, to take up the family business. The Russians had treated the boy abominably, but those facts were absent from the text. All expertly written to paint Alan Blunt as a man who would use any means necessary to be top dog in the dirty world of espionage.

He switched on CNN in his hotel room, to watch the business news headlines on the hostile takeover of the Fiend Supermarket Empire. A well coordinated attack on his best placed ally. No doubt Sprintz had his hand in that. Revenge was a dish best served cold. Two years for all to sharpen their knives to stick in his back. He had no real power to get back at the journalist. His connections to Westminster would shrivel up. No one would return his calls and the press pack would be camped outside the gates of his wife's residence in Surrey.

The former Head of MI6 Special Operations knew it was against protocol to admit to any involvement in black operations. His former employers controlled his pension and demanded complete silence. With no blowback to current SIS work, he would have to ride out the media storm alone. He could not out ASIS's problems with Howell, as the man had been tried for money laundering and tax evasion, nothing to do with spying. The traitor was safer in prison, as certain death awaited him for his part in destroying the criminal empire of Winston Yu. Blunt could not count on help from his old team, as Tulip did not return his calls after transferring back to Special Branch Liaison, Smithers was now head of Research and Development with Interpol and Crawley was knee deep in bullshit as MI6 Middle East Section Chief.

Did he have any other options? Work as a security consultant would mean life as an exile in the Middle or Far East, but better than the alternative as fall guy for everything at MI6 pre 2005. Knowing the pen pushers in the Civil Service, they would have no qualms to shift the misdirection over WMDs in Iraq onto his head now and he could do nothing to defend himself. Cecily still had not forgiven him for his retirement without the expected knighthood; his official slap on the wrist over use of the Rider boy. There was no chance Alexander would defend him, even if the young man was outed in the press. The thought of disclosing any information about a former operative would see him vilified as a traitor at worst or just a petty loser at best. First and foremost was to clear this mess with his wife, for that he needed to head home and put his political ambitions on hold.

He pondered phoning his contacts, but he knew asking favours was better done face to face. The BBC was showing the throng of media outside his home in Surrey. His wife would not be impressed. The ex-spy wondered if her vows of for better and for worse would stretch this far.

…

Mikey Warsawski had shared a room with Joe Canterbury for nearly two months. The guy was not a total slob, but he hardly ever slept. The jock with a sports scholarship had not been impressed when discovering he'd been teamed up with an obvious geek for roomie, who was from money back East. The guy had hidden depths though, with a bestie who was a DJ at one of the best clubs in West LA. A stone's throw from Mikey's last foster placement. Nearly every weekend the computer nerd was partying down here or in LA and had a complete babe as a girlfriend. Both were freaky vegans, but that seemed to be on trend with those in the media spotlight. This morning, totally out of character Joe was reading all the serious newspapers, currently chuckling at the editorial on some limey loser called Blunt

With no plans to go anywhere for Thanksgiving, he was busy cutting coupons for his own budget feast. When Joe suggested "Mi case es su casa? It'll be a cool bonding experience to spend a week in the boringville Pennsylvania with the Canterburys."

Totally taken aback when Joe offered him a space at Grandma's table for the holidays, all the broke student could reply was "Huhh?"

"Come, I promise Grandma Graylow would love any guy with a heathy appetite. She tries with me and my baby bro, but I'm vegetarian and Sasha's got a million issues over food. So, you'll get to share most of the turkey, gravy, candied yams and pumpkin pie with dad. Mom's forever watching her weight and sticks to slices of breast meat and salad. I'll have nutroast and Sasha will have corn and nothing else, preferring to wait for sandwiches made from the leftovers."

The football running back knew already that Joe's dad would be sat in front of a game, unlike his son's. "Sure, for free food. What about airfare? I can't afford a flight to DC this late in the day."

Joe grinned like a Cheshire Cat, "Private jet, a total freebie curtesy of my brother's very rich boss. All my crowd are heading home and you're all alone. It'll be good for you to find out rich and successful does not mean cold and aloof. Mom may be a life long politician, but knowing her, she'll probably adopt you." The elder, biological child of Mimi Graylow-Canterbury, wanted nothing more than anything to see his parents, grandma and bro again after three months separation. A reunion eagerly anticipated by all. Alex's messages mentioned nothing else. Then again Sasha was suspiciously avoiding any mention of that book or that ratfink Blunt. He had an ulterior motive for inviting a stranger home. He knew everyone would be graciously polite and his brother would therefore not be centre of attention. Spyboy needed a buffer, and would not want the third degree over feelings and reaction to the media storm, when it was irrelevant to them anyway. He could bet his college fund that no one would trace the teen agent to them.


End file.
